


when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking is left in me

by coffeepoweredlesbian



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Seduction, Character Study, Heist, Insecurity, Jealous Peter Nureyev, Jealousy, Junoverse | Juno Steel Universe, Lack of Communication, Nonbinary Juno Steel, Other, Peter Nureyev Alias Generator (Penumbra Podcast), Peter Nureyev Is Bad At Feelings, Peter Nureyev Needs a Hug, Sad Peter Nureyev, nureyev-typical ageism, the fic is juno being hot plus heist stuff happening okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28721589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeepoweredlesbian/pseuds/coffeepoweredlesbian
Summary: Breathe in, out. Fold up every nasty emotion, worry, and distraction. Reduce to only the most essential.A billionaire's art gallery. A seduction job gone wrong. And a heist that refuses to stay on track.Peter Nureyev's evening starts off bad, and rapidly progresses to worse as he attempts to navigate his feelings for Juno Steel and a crippling sense of inadequacy while doing his absolute least favorite thing during a mission: improvising.
Relationships: Buddy Aurinko & Vespa Ilkay & Peter Nureyev & Rita & Jet Sikuliaq & Juno Steel, Juno Steel/Original Character(s), Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 20
Kudos: 125





	when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking is left in me

**Author's Note:**

> peter nureyev is trans in this. and autistic. it is not explicitly mentioned I just want everyone to know. actually none of the characters are straight or cis not even the ruby <3
> 
> CW's for peter-typical ageism and insecurity and all of the potentially dodgy stuff that comes with honeypotting (i.e. the mark getting handsy at some point). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“Are you in position?” Buddy Aurinko’s voice was tinny filtered through the speaker of Peter’s earpiece. It took all of his self-control not to wince. He had fiddled with the volume before going in, anticipating a bustling crowd, and was deeply regretting it. 

Peter ducked behind a column to make his reply, snatching a champagne glass from a tray as it passed by, hoverlights glowing amber on the underside. “Yes, Captain.” He kept moving, every step fluid as he walked around and back into view of the guests. “Is our target visible?” The drink barely wet his lips, but it did enough to hide the shapes of his speech. 

“Not yet. They tend to lean more  _ fashionably late  _ than  _ early bird,  _ despite being as flighty as one. Once you have their attention, you’ll have to keep it long enough for Vespa and Jet to make it backstage. If anything should go wrong, you have backup.”

“With all due respect, Captain, I know the plan.” Peter couldn’t let himself stay in one place too long. He had read everything he could on the target, Sora O’Kindall, and to win them over, he needed to appear elusive and shy. That meant no dancing, no standing still, and only the most passing of conversations. 

“Alright then. I’m signing off now, darling. Good luck.”

He let the retort die on his tongue. Peter Nureyev was a master, with decades of seduction under his belt, so to speak. Luck had no part in it. But right now he was not Nureyev. 

Irex Sargon was an artist, a tortured one, for an artist lacking a muse is a pitiable thing. His hair was a dull red, ginger enough to appear real, and his glasses were fitted with delicate silver chains. Fingerless gloves, something Nureyev  _ despised,  _ covered his hands and exposed long, slender fingers. And a corset, cut from embroidered silk, sparkled at the underbust and sides with glittering stones. Beautiful, but in a demure way. He did not interact with people, shifting in and out of vision in the periphery of the room, and each attempt at conversation only revealed that he was eccentric and reticent, unable to carry a dialogue for longer than a minute. 

Enter Sora O’Kindall, eccentric and reticent, only able to carry a dialogue if it involved their extensive art collection, harvested from down-on-their-luck geniuses from the Outer Rim. Some would call it exploitation. They would most likely refer to it as bargaining. This was their first open-comms event in five years, and it was bound to be packed full of art snobs and aspiring collectors looking to see the most coveted gallery in Saturn’s gravitational sphere. 

And when the curtains keeping the guests from the rest of the room were lifted, the crown jewels of the collection would be gone. The theft was more symbolic than anything, but a passing glance at the estimate prices was enough to drag a whistle from Juno during their family meeting. 

The lady himself was currently perched on a tall corner stool by the bar, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to figure out how to operate the hologram drink selector in front of him. Currently, jabbing his finger at the menu with increasing frustration appeared to be doing nothing. Juno was playing sad drunk. Assuming he could figure out how to get a drink. He had volunteered for the role quite enthusiastically, with the assertion that  _ “if I’ve been it enough times in my life, acting it can’t be much harder.”  _ Later, in private, he had followed up with:  _ “I wanna be able to ogle you during the mission.”  _

And how was Peter supposed to refuse a prospect as tempting as that?

His glance had lasted only a moment. The rest of his thoughts concerning Juno Steel were folded up and filed away under _“_ _ For Very-Near Future Consideration. _ _”_ In Juno’s place was Anika Reyes, someone who Peter did not know and did not care to know. 

Peter swirled the champagne in his hand, surveying the rest of the crowd. After a moment of consideration, he slipped behind another column and set the glass down on a passing platter. Sora was paranoid, and kept no staff for their moonside estate, deferring instead to robotics and smart-tech for their hosting needs. Which meant Peter had the task of being so irresistible that they would chase after him, caution thrown to the wind. 

When he emerged once again, a hush had come over the room. Most everyone stopped, or at least slowed their movements, and Peter took the opportunity to shuffle through the crowd and orient himself directly where he needed to be. Close enough to catch their eye, but not so close that he was obvious.

Sora O’Kindall entered the room. Their suit, red and shimmering gold, cut a sharp figure as a side door slid open. Their eyes were nearly obscured by tight ringlets that fell from the top of their head, the sides of their hair cropped neatly. For someone who hid from all attention, they held the spotlight like it was their birthright. 

Peter’s hands twitched with the urge to slip a couple things into his pockets, but he refrained. It would be rather awkward to hide, with his already tight pants, and he doubted Sora would take kindly to him pickpocketing their guests. As he parsed through people like a thumb through a deck of cards, a lightness unfurled in his chest. When he felt Sora’s gaze on, over, then past him, the feeling turned pointed, warming him from the center out. 

He would be a liar if he said he didn’t miss this. The roll of the dice, the back and forth. Closer and closer, circling each other without even being aware of it. A look here, a brush there. Peter wove dizzying circles around his mark, relishing in the awareness of being observed, examined by curious eyes looking to determine if this flicker of a man was worth the trouble. They would have to make the first move of course, but just sensing their eyes, a silent, unseen deliberation, was enough to paint his cheeks a deliberate flush. 

Sora did not speak to many people, or for very long. Neither did they dance, despite the music that was playing from hidden speakers. Stunning entrance aside, their behavior was matching Peter’s file more and more closely. Preference for men, took lovers slightly younger, put off by being cocky, being direct, or being someone who made them feel powerless. Peter had taken Rex Glass, a personal point of pride, and found the complete antithesis. He had enough experience with faking harmlessness, and so he took his knife’s edge grin and his solar-glare eyes and dulled, dimmed, deconstructed all the parts of Peter Nureyev that could be seen as a potential threat. 

Peter had prepared for this. It was his greatest asset, this magnetic pull that kept Sora’s eyes on him as he went to stand by one of the columns he had scoped out earlier. He listened for their approach, the clink of their platform shoes, and pretended to be fixing his hair. When they were almost next to him, he took a step forward and nearly collided with one of the moving platters of champagne. Overcorrecting himself to avoid spilling the drink down his shirt, he stumbled back, and let his lip twitch upwards just slightly when he felt a warm hand catch his elbow. 

“Oh! Oh, my deepest apologies…” Peter turned around, his words trembling, eyes trained on the ground. He felt the tips of his ears burn with manufactured embarrassment. He looked up. _“_ _ Oh.  _ I, I—Mx. O’Kindall. I had no idea…”

Sora laughed. “It’s quite alright.”

Peter’s responding chuckle was short and strained with nerves. “Surely there’s a way I could earn your forgiveness?”

“Consider it earned.” Sora took Peter’s hand and kissed it, barely a brush against the fabric.

Peter let his blush grow. “What could I have possibly done to attract the attention of someone like yourself?”

“I like your corset. Where did you get it?”

Peter swallowed, hard. Even motions like these were important, whether or not the mark saw them. “One of a kind. Commissioned off a lovely—” his last word was cut off with a choked squeak. 

Sora’s fingers hovered over Peter’s stomach, tracing the faint pattern of a crane flying above pale pink flowers. “The art is beautiful. I have an eye for this sort of thing, you know.”

“I’m, ah, sure you do.” 

Sora straightened, and for a second Peter was sure he had this. He had done everything correctly. This was the part where the mark asked his name, and he would respond. Irex would be the kind to tack on a  _ but you can call me whatever you’d like _ . And that would be that. The clock would tick until Vespa and Jet gave Buddy the go-ahead, and Peter would extricate himself from whatever compromising position he was headed towards. This should have been it.

And then, Sora’s gaze slid off him like it had never wanted to linger at all, and focused on someone right over his shoulder. 

Peter paused, waiting for those brown eyes to come back to him, but they never did. He was halfway through turning when he realized he didn’t need to. A cold weight settled in the pit of his stomach once he understood who Sora was looking at. 

Juno Steel, whiskey in hand, was the picture-perfect definition of brooding. His red lips curled in a pout as he braced himself on the bar with muscular arms left bare by the thin straps of his gown. He slouched, one leg crossed over the other in a way that only exposed more of his thigh through the already high slit. It was one of Buddy’s from back in the day, neckline dropping so low it made Peter’s mouth run dry. 

He was exquisite. And for a moment Peter felt silly for even trying to compare. What was the point of trying to outshine a goddess?

Then came the realization that his mark was about to get stolen by an amateur, a novice, someone whose first attempt at an alias was so tragic it took all of five minutes for his cover to be blown. That was when the righteous indignation set in. 

Peter reached out to grab the mark’s wrist, but thought better of it and pulled back. “There has to be something I can do to make it up to you.” No response. He tried another awkward chuckle. “If that’s alright with you, Mx.” 

Sora turned back to him. “Actually I think I had better keep moving. Hosting is such a chore, and I’d hate for my guests to feel excluded.” They must have sensed some disappointment, because they continued, “I could always find you after the unveiling?”

Peter felt himself nod, unable to do anything but blink as his target waved a polite goodbye. This didn’t make sense. It didn’t. The searching eyes focused on him throughout the night…

...were most likely directed at Juno. 

Peter did not have to force his cheeks to go hot. But where Irex Sargon’s embarrassment was a product of a shy and delicate persona, Peter simply felt like an idiot. 

There was nothing he could do. Nothing except wait and hope Juno didn’t take it too hard when his naturally abrasive demeanor sent Sora running for the hills. Or, more accurately, for Mr. Sargon, who was clearly more suited to their tastes. 

Because Juno may have looked sublime, with the hard line of his jaw accentuated by stubble and the slope of his neck wrapped in layers of fine golden chain. And the curves of his body draped in emerald satin and _—_ _ file that away, this is not the time _ _._ Peter was supposed to be angry. Because no matter how beautiful Juno was, there was a fatal flaw in Sora’s approach. Juno was, quite simply put, not their type. The opposite of their type, actually. And when they realized that Juno was about as charming as sandpaper on a chalkboard, the heist could continue as planned and Peter would be able to do his job without interruption. 

He reminded himself to have a talk with Buddy about the costumes she provided Juno, for the sake of both the mission’s integrity and Peter’s concentration. But before he could fully pull himself into the mask of Irex Sargon, he saw Sora take a seat on the barstool next to Juno, and all thoughts of heists and jobs flew out of his head. 

Sora said something. Juno set his glass down and smiled. It was one of his uncertain smiles, the ones that came forward when he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to respond or not. For a second, his composure flickered. Then, he leaned back and picked up his whiskey once more. Peter could see his lips moving, and it took all of his willpower not to get lost in the shape of them. He needed to listen in. To make sure Juno wasn’t about to let something slip, he told himself. 

Yet another column provided shelter from the prying eyes of the crowd, as well as a perfect cover for some light eavesdropping. To make sure Juno wouldn’t give them away, of course. From here, Peter had a direct view of Juno and Sora at the bar. 

Sora leaned in, attentive in a way they hadn’t been with Peter. “So what are you doing after this?”

“Me? Oh, I’m passing out on the couch, heels are killing me.” Juno wiggled his feet just a little bit and snorted. “But not as bad as the hangover’s gonna be. Damn, your bots know how to mix their drinks.” 

Peter tried not to wince. Bringing up the pointed lack of waitstaff, cursing, and that rough, intimidating voice were all three things the mark disliked. He supposed he should be thankful. The sooner Juno botched this, the sooner Peter could swoop in and salvage it.

But then, Sora O’Kindall laughed, actually  _ laughed,  _ their hand coming to rest on Juno’s shoulder and sliding down his bare arm. Slender, manicured fingers wrapped around his wrist and guided the drink he was holding to the counter. 

“Let me get you another one,” they said, and either their voice had gone quieter or Peter had temporarily lost the full scope of his hearing from the blood roaring in his ears.

_ What.  _

He blinked, hard, as if to wipe the image from his mind. This was ridiculous. Surely Juno wasn’t about to—

Juno’s dark eyes dragged a path up and down Sora’s body, and something twisted itself in Peter’s chest, reaching up to close its tendrils around his throat as well. Swallowing felt like eating glass. Vaguely, he knew he should be moving, keeping Irex Sargon’s mask airtight, an impenetrable shield. But Peter’s defenses had always been quite useless against Juno Steel, and right now, he couldn’t find it in himself to care about anything else. 

“Yeah,” Juno said, finally. “I think I’d like that.”

“Sora.” They tapped out a sequence on the drink menu, offering something amber to Juno with a flourish of the wrist. “Sora O’Kindall. And you, my mysterious lady?” 

He took it. “Anika Reyes. Pleasure.” 

Peter’s focus did not slip for a single moment. When Sora had passed the drink to Juno, their fingers had brushed together. Was that on purpose? What was Juno playing at, trying to steal Peter’s job out from under his nose? He gritted his teeth together as he watched Juno throw his head back and swallow the contents of his glass, bare throat bobbing in the uneven light. Before the mission, Juno had taken three blood alcohol content-regulating pills, to ensure that even if he had to drink, he could stay sober and sharp as backup. The sudden itching under Peter’s skin didn’t have to do with anxiety or a lack of faith in Juno’s criminal abilities. So  _ why... _

He wasn’t the only one observing. Sora’s mouth quirked in an appreciative smile as Juno’s chin tipped back down. If Peter had even a little less restraint, he would have done something incredibly drastic. 

Juno breathed a half-coughed out chuckle. “Shit, that’s strong. Keep at it and I’ll be all yours for the night.”

Was this revenge somehow, for something Peter had done? He hadn’t realized he was gripping the column so tightly until his hand started to ache and he realized he had been white-knuckling it. 

“Don’t say things you don’t mean, Miss Reyes.” 

Juno had to be doing this on purpose. Flirting, pulling out all the stops with that cocky look and knowing smile and turning just so the tendon in his neck was in full view. 

“Who says I don’t? Buy me another drink and find out.” 

Peter was going to be sick. This feeling was completely novel, this steadily-building vexation that made him fight to tamp down nausea and shake from the knees up. He wanted to throw something. More than that, he wanted to march over there and give them both a piece of his mind. Juno, for derailing the heist. And Sora, for looking at Juno like  _ that.  _ Like they already knew what he would look like without that dress. Like they  _ owned  _ him. 

Instead, Peter stood and seethed. 

The conversation continued. Something about what they did, how Juno was finding the party, where he would be going next. And then:

“I never stay in one place for too long. Not only ‘cause I’d get bored, but my work takes me everywhere. Clients from all around the galaxy all have too many creds to toss around and not enough ideas for new ship designs. It’s tiring, y’know, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

“So this,” Sora waved their hand aimlessly. “This is a pit stop? Any chance you could linger?”

“Galaxy’s much bigger than the two of us. The future’s call and all that.” Juno’s eyes found Peter’s, a split second of contact that was enough to send his mind spinning. And then the moment was gone and Anika Reyes was back. “But the future can wait one night.” 

Peter tried to file it away, he really did. Fold up Anika and Sora and the feeling that was definitely not jealousy because he did not  _ get  _ jealous, and press it all into a locked filing cabinet titled “For Never Consideration.” But much like trying to force one’s body to stay grounded during a gravity-malfunction, it floated up again and again. 

Because underneath all of that, was the knowledge that Juno could have anyone he wanted staring at him like he had hung the stars, just like that. And if Peter couldn’t even do his job, the simplest job of the entire heist, correctly, then what was stopping Juno from choosing someone who could keep up with him? 

Peter knew his looks were withering. He wasn’t stupid. Every day he had to wake up just a little earlier to ensure that not a single wrinkle or grey hair would show, to make sure that his face possessed the same chiseled beauty it had decades ago. But he always had his charm to fall back on, his impeccable knowledge of people and who they wanted him to be. If it was so easy for him to fail, how many times would he be left on the sidelines, watching the effortlessly, agelessly gorgeous love of his life sweet talk someone much more worthy of his devotion? How long would it take for the Captain, for everyone else, to leave him on the sidelines too? 

Juno deserved someone who shone as radiantly as he did. The Carte Blanche deserved someone who could actually complete a mission. 

First rule of thieving: never fall behind. Be the most valuable person at all times. To not be valuable is to be expendable.

Peter needed to leave. Something hot prickled at the corner of his eyes, and the sheer humiliation of the fact spurred him to unglue his feet from where they had seemingly become frozen to the floor. His comms rang, on the wrong side of loud, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Pete. Vespa and Jet have run into a roadblock of sorts. The backup isn’t responding.”

Peter opened his mouth at least twice before being able to make a sound. “I...he’s occupied. There was a change in plans.”

Buddy paused. “Ah. So I take it you’re the backup now?”

“Where are they?” 

“Start walking towards the restroom-side exit. Make it into the hallway and I can guide you from there.”

Peter cleared his throat, trying to bring his voice back to normal. “I can make it there by myself. Just tell me where, I memorized the floor plans.”

Another pause. Was she hesitating because she didn’t trust Peter? Because she knew his memory was as feeble as the rest of him and it was only a matter of time before he slipped up in a way he couldn’t fix? Had he already become expendable? 

“Keep going down the hallway past the restrooms. I’ll have Rita open the doors for you as you go. When you’re at the end of the corridor, take a right turn, and keep going forward. Look for a door on your left leading into the gallery. Guards should be taken out, but you must move quickly. Oh, and I recommend loosening your corset as you walk. The unveiling is in less than half an hour, darling.”

With those incredibly confusing instructions, Buddy signed off with a beep. 

Peter moved to the exit, but found that his legs would not carry him there. They were still stuck, keeping him rooted in place as he watched Juno and Sora carry on their conversation, now much closer than before.

That same cocktail of anxiety and resentment welled up in him. 

He and Juno had discussed boundaries fairly early on, what was and wasn’t acceptable behavior with a mark. Juno had given the go-ahead for kissing and light touching as long as it was an unavoidable part of the job. But they had never gotten around to setting limits for Juno. Peter hadn’t even considered this scenario, although he felt incredibly foolish for not doing so now. But it wasn’t like he could saunter on over and tell Juno  _ I would die if you kissed someone else.  _ He couldn’t do anything.

Peter Nureyev had stared down the barrel of a hundred guns, been tortured within an inch of his life, stolen the most valuable treasures from every celestial body ever discovered and then some. He had brought an entire city to its knees and carved out his heart with the same knife he had sunk into the only person that cared for him unconditionally. 

And he was helpless. 

He may have failed once. Perhaps it was his looks or his charisma that was lacking, perhaps it was simply bad luck. And there was a chance he could fail a second time, in keeping Juno’s affections focused on him. He had been tossed aside once already, and no matter how much he tried to bandage that wound, it now burned as raw as it had that morning he had woken up alone. 

But his crewmates needed him. He would not let them down. He would not fail a third time. He couldn’t. 

As soon as Peter was in the hallway, his fingers were flying behind his back as he took off running, the bow coming undone, the ladder-lacing of the corset loosened. Each moment synchronized in time with his footsteps as he sidestepped the short-circuited shells of robotic guards, sliding between an automated door that was only just opening, and twirling on his heel to take a sharp right turn. He moved up and down the lacing a bit more, just to ensure it was completely undone, before unhooking it down the front. 

This was what he was for. Like this, moving, with a goal and a destination in mind, it was so much easier to crumple his emotions and toss them in the deep recesses of his brain. No use in pretending he was ever going to consider them. 

As soon as he had the corset in his arms, he saw the door, with two silhouettes on the other side. He ground to a stop right in front of them, and felt Jet grab his shoulder to halt his forward momentum.

“You are not Juno.”

“I’m afraid Juno is unavailable.” Peter gritted out past the bitter taste in his mouth. “You have me as your backup.” 

Vespa snorted. “And you’re about as good as a ball of dirt in a mud pit. Look.” She jerked her chin to the side, where the rest of the gallery was laid out. 

The paintings were hung in their frames, the more abstract pieces displayed on pedestals. Millions of creds, ripe for the taking. Then, Peter squinted and saw why Jet had seen fit to hold him still. A network of faint blue lasers crisscrossed the entire room. In the ceiling, rectangular shapes were carved out. It didn’t take a detective to know that this was a failsafe. And whatever the panels above them held back, it wouldn’t be good

“Oh,” said Peter. “That is quite the roadblock.” 

“Damn right it is, Ransom. I don’t know what you and Steel are up to, but you’d better quit it, because he’s the only one that can make the shot without this booby-trapped hellhouse blowing us to bits.”

Peter pointedly ignored the rest of the sentence “The shot?”

Jet gestured across the room, at the farthest wall. “That button. Rita could not get to it. It most likely has an analog remote to deactivate the defense system when the owner wishes, or it is time-linked and will deactivate when the curtains lift.”

Vespa coughed. “But by then the entire  _ soiree  _ is gonna know we’re here. This divider,” she knocked on it, the metal reverberating under her knuckles. “Goes up in half an hour for the unveiling. So unless you wanna be sitting pretty for a mugshot—” 

“I need to hit an impossible target,” Peter finished. “I see why Juno was necessary. But Captain Aurinko seemed to think I could assist.”  _You were the only person left,_ a venomous voice whispered.  _ Only a desperate fool with no other options would turn to you.  _ He ignored it, more shoving it into a cabinet than filing it away. “She told me to undo my...oh no.” 

“What?” Jet and Vespa said, at the same time, with varying degrees of annoyance.

“I may not be a sharpshooter like our dear detective,” said Peter, tossing his corset on the ground and moving to unstrap his heels. “But I am a master thief, and one with years of contortion experience.

A hush came over the room

“Oh you’ve gotta be shitting me,” said Vespa. “I don’t care how good you think you are, nobody can make it through that.”

“I am afraid Vespa is right, Ransom. Perhaps with time to practice and train, you could succeed in the attempt. But the risk is too great.”

“I refuse to return empty-handed,” said Peter. “So unless you have a better idea, I’d recommend you two let me work. The more time we spend bickering, the less time I have to navigate.” 

Before the words even left his mouth, he already knew what they were going to say. 

“Oh,  _ fuck  _ your pride,” Vespa growled, at the same time that Jet lunged forward to try and restrain Peter.

Peter moved faster. He always did. Before Jet’s hand could close around his wrist or his arm could hook over his waist, he took the first leap over one beam and ducked under another. When he turned, he was met with twin pairs of stunned expressions.

He forced a smile, then turned back. Neither of them would interrupt him now, now when he was already in the thick of it. Well. Twisting himself across a gallery in under fifteen minutes with the threat of certain doom hanging over his head sounded like a fantastic way to spend his evening. 

This was going to be trickier than he originally thought, which should have been concerning considering his first thought was “impossible.” One wrong move and Peter would be dead. Vespa and Jet too, if the lasers activated an alarm of some kind. 

It was good, then, that Peter Nureyev was not in the habit of making wrong moves.

He breathed in and out, examining the room. It was spacious, and the lasers projected from the sides in an uneven, barely visible pattern. They were not gridded horizontally or vertically, and angled from varying heights. Peter would have to take them one after the other. If he had an opportunity to prepare beforehand, he could have analyzed the patterns, found a strategy to get him through without fail, tested out each movement in his room first, to make sure it was physically possible. But there was no time. There was only his breathing, his body, this moment. 

This is what he was here for. 

He reached his arm over the next laser and paused, pulling back. Then, he dropped into a crouch, ducking under it instead, his feet steady as he swung them up and back on the ground to avoid tripping a laser right across the floor. Halfway through trying to rise, he froze, a cluster of light right next to his ear. It would be difficult to raise his hands from the tile without his elbows hitting a beam. 

So instead, he pressed his arms to his sides and kept himself in a 90-degree bend, tucking himself under the first set of intersected lasers. He let out a breath. It was only going to get worse from here.

First rule of thieving: hands steady at all times. Peter modified the advice slightly as he lifted his leg and extended it over a blue beam, staying balanced on the ball of his foot. He moved his arm through the same gap, shifting his weight in a sudden jump to pull the rest of his body through, then dropped to the floor to avoid two downward-sloped lasers. It was difficult, keeping his head tucked close and joints folded in while also staying aware of the barely-there lights. But he did it. He refused to glance back, to distract himself.

Tune everything else out, he told himself. Reduce to the bare essentials. A line of light. His body. The clock. 

He went on like this for quite some time, picking up a more confident rhythm that had him flowing like water past the gallery’s security. He would crawl across the floor, extend his legs in a dancer’s move, twist his torso until he was as compact as the beams themselves, stretching and shimmying into poses that should’ve been impossible. As he became more accustomed to certain positions, he barely had to think about what to do, reacting naturally to each obstacle. Peter only became preoccupied for one moment, when he saw the button within reach and the concentration he had put into keeping his balance wavered. A tremor ran through him. 

He stopped his knee from brushing a laser just in time. Gulping, he guided it over the beam, the rest of him soon to follow. Peter was on his feet now, standing, a nearly airtight network of light weaving the final stretch. He just needed to reach through. Somehow. 

“Hey, uh, Ransom, not to rush you, but we’re almost out of time. Try not to blow us up.” Vespa’s voice wavered slightly, her yell echoing off the gallery walls. Peter tuned her out. 

His arms, no matter how long, would not make it. He could try to guide his body through the maze, but he doubted there was an opening. Peter weighed his options, analyzed every possible way, and made a decision. 

He knelt, flattening his palms on the floor, and tightened his abdominal muscles as he lifted both his feet from the ground. Pressing his chin to his neck, he could see, albeit upside down, the one way through. Peter pointed his toes, keeping the other leg positioned for balance, and extended the other towards the button. 

Peter miscalculated. The plastic cover on the button required a flick of his foot to open, and that small motion almost tripped a beam above his leg. Overcorrecting, he shifted down, and the weight he was keeping on one arm broke, his elbow falling into an acute angle and crossing the stream of light.

The lasers turned red. 

At the same time, his toe found the button, and the system flickered out. 

All the strength left him and he collapsed, a tangled mess on the ground. 

Distantly, he could see the shadow of footsteps on the ground, hear voices calling for him, telling him to get up, grab what he could get and  _ go go go, we only have a couple minutes.  _ Neither of his crewmates made a move to help him up, instead resuming their part of the heist. Namely, robbing the place blind. He didn’t hold it against them. In fact, he appreciated the time it gave him to gather his bearings, to slip the composed mask of Peter Ransom over his face. 

Peter let out all the air in his lungs and wheezed, chest shaking with tense laughter as he realized how close of a call that was. How impossible of a mission that was. 

And he had done it. _ He wasn’t useless.  _

“Yes yes, Pete, you are quite impressive. Now, I recommend you take what we came for and run. The Ruby will meet you at the previously arranged point.” Buddy’s voice was back in his ear, snapping him from his delirious state. Had he spoken out loud? 

“Of course, Captain. My apologies.” Peter unhooked the clasp on a glass case and lifted the painting out. He stacked it on top of another, and another, arms still trembling. He had carried Juno, bridal style, around the corridors of the Carte Blanche for ten minutes after losing a bet. He could handle some artworks.

“That was reckless. I would have expected it from Juno, not you,” Buddy trailed off, letting her silence speak for her. “But no matter. Once the divider rises, Juno will take his leave.”

Jet was lifting what looked like a huge vase in the shape of a bird, the throat oversized and hollow, and Vespa threw a couple of smaller, more flexible artworks into it. They wouldn’t be able to take everything like they had originally intended, but they were walking out of here with at least a few hundred million creds and a reputation to match. Since this was an open-comms event, news of this would spread, further cementing the reputation of the Aurinko Crime Family. And, of course, the payout wouldn’t hurt. 

But, if he was being honest with himself, a rare and momentous occasion, Peter could not care less. His only thoughts were of Juno, of his confident smile and roaming eyes. The jealousy, and it  _ was _ jealousy, Peter realized, had returned, hissing its promises of never being enough, of stumbling, and becoming a liability who had to be left behind. He smothered it between priceless paintings and a handful of miniature sculptures, stuffed into his pocket. For Future Consideration, perhaps, if he was feeling up for it. If not, well, Peter was fairly accustomed to disassembling parts of himself and forgetting other aspects of his personality entirely. That could wait. Right now, he was in the present moment. 

By the time he saw his corset and heels were still on the floor, his hands were already more than full. He would have to leave them behind. A shame, he had rather liked that particular design. 

Vespa brushed past him, arms laden with stacks of canvas and sim-wood carvings. “One minute left. Let’s go, Ransom.” And then, quieter. “Thanks.”

They took the stairs up, running for the third floor window. Peter knew his feet would ache in the morning, all of him would. A decade ago, a job like this would have been nothing. But now, his body rendered weak with time and stress, he was sure to be covered in ghostly bruises and sore muscles when he awoke. That was what he got, for pulling stunt after stunt without a single preparatory stretch beforehand. 

The Ruby, in all of her shining green glory, beeped at them as they approached. After a murmur from Vespa into her comms, the window’s digital latches clicked open. Peter reminded himself to buy Rita some extra snacks the next time they stopped planetside. He used his shoulder, stifling a pained hiss, to push it open, and Vespa lifted it the rest of the way, or as high as she could get it. Jet stepped through first, quirking a lip at the delighted chirp that greeted him. Vespa next, taking shotgun. Peter all but tumbled in the backseat, pockets rattling. He propped the larger paintings up, and hoped Juno wasn’t too attached to his legroom. By the time Jet and Vespa had passed their artworks to him, the Ruby was piled high with their spoils, and Peter was trying to find a way to sit comfortably without kicking something.

Why couldn’t they have just robbed a bank? Why did they have to be Falcon Cloak types, or whatever that Old Earth character was called? Billionaires would still be corrupt, no matter how flashy the thieves pursuing them became.

“Ruby,” said Jet. “Take us to the main entrance, but don’t descend immediately.” He looked back at Peter. “Did Buddy say when Juno would be joining us?”

“When the divider rises.” Peter chewed his bottom lip. It was a manufactured habit, one he came up with to breathe personality into Ransom, but it was starting to catch on. “If my estimations are correct, fifteen minutes have long since passed. Should the gallery not be open by now?”

They waited a few minutes longer. Vespa groaned, hitting the Ruby’s glove compartment hard enough to make Peter wince and the Ruby beep. “C’mon Steel. The hell’s taking so long?”

Internally, Peter agreed with the sentiment. The worry had a chokehold on him, cutting off his air, forcing his breaths out in choppy huffs. Perhaps that was why he made yet another reckless, almost certainly regrettable decision. 

He cleared his throat. “Ruby, descend to the entrance, then move to hover until I return.”

_ “ Seriously? _ _”_ Vespa rounded on him with a glare. “What’re you playing at?”

Jet chuckled. “Ransom, please address the Ruby 7 using her proper name. Also, your command will not process. Ruby only responds to—oh.” 

Peter wished he had time to be smug when the Ruby began to lower itself down until it settled on the ground. He filed the thought away under “For Later Ammunition In Ongoing Custody Battle.” The Ruby chirped twice and then the click of the passenger side door spurred Peter into motion. It took him three long strides to cross the neatly trimmed sim-grass, one more until he stood in front of the ornate doors. By then, the Ruby was far above him, avoiding the periodic security scans the estate used to ensure no party crashers would arrive.

Speaking of. Peter tapped the mechanism hanging beside the doors. “Irex Sargon submitting identification. If you would unlock these doors, I’d be eternally grateful.”

The device flashed, recording his face, a holo ID projected in front of it. All the registration was there in the system already, his contoured face and dyed hair matching perfectly with his fake Solar passport. A long pause. Then, a cold, mechanical voice spoke. 

“Guest: Sargon, Irex. Request: allow re-entry. Request denied. Not registered to re-enter.”

Peter muttered an Outer Rim curse under his breath, fishing out the tablet part of his comms and letting it sync up to his earpiece. He dialed without a second thought. 

“Carte Blanche, Rita’s room, this is  _ Rrrrita  _ speaking.”

“Rita, dear, could you please get these doors to open for me? It claims I am not registered for re-entry.”

A beat of silence passed between them, which was like an eternity on mute to Rita. “Yaknow, Mista Ransom, most thieving-types don’t go back into the place they just robbed. Oh _-_ __oh!_ _ Unless...you’ve fallen in love with your target and are returning the items you stole like in, what wassit called…”

“Rita.”

“ _ Or  _ you’re coming back in to steal  _ more  _ things like  _ Masked Marauder Part 2: Many More Muggings. ” _

“Darling, I really need—”

_ “ No,  _ you’re going in to save the love of your—” she cut herself off with a shrill gasp. “Oh  _ no no no _ , is Mista Steel in trouble? Please tell me he isn’t still in there.”

Peter tried not to snap. He was impatient and wrapped in sickly dread, but he refused to take it out on Rita. She had already been vital to the success of this mission. “I need to get inside, and you’re the only one that can get me in here. I’m sorry for asking this of you, but—”

“Done!”

“Really?”

The automated voice spoke. “Guest: Sargon, Irex. Request: allow re-entry. Request accepted.” The doors slid open. 

“There you are, Mista Ransom, now go get Mista Steel and bring him back safe and sound, ya hear?”

Peter grinned, ear to ear. “You truly are a marvel, Rita.”

She giggled. “Flatterer.” Then, the call disconnected and Peter was running. 

He didn’t want to move too far from the entrance, just close enough to find what he needed to. Even so, he was panting and disheveled by the time he made it to the gallery, eyes panning across the room, searching for the only person on his mind the entire evening. After looking at the bar showed no one of note, he continued to scan each cluster of guests with ever-increasing desperation. 

He wasn’t sure which one was worse: Juno being harmed in some way, or Juno being otherwise occupied. Stupid question, of course Peter knew which one was worse. But as for which one he’d rather see…

That particular train of thought died before it could fully flourish, when he realized two things. One, that the divider was still down. And two, that he was relying too much on sight, because beyond the bustle of the crowd and clinking of glasses, a familiar voice could be overheard. Peter whipped his head to the right so hard he could feel his neck pop. There, tucked away from the party behind yet another one of those damned columns, were Juno and Sora, achingly close. 

His heart jumped into his throat, but instead of livid, he was just scared. Peter had nearly  _ died _ tonight, and yet this was what frightened him. He shouldn’t have expected any less from the detective who had always managed to twist Peter’s emotions up into unexplainable knots. But when he focused on the two of them, he could see how Juno furrowed his eyebrows, pressed his lips together until the corners were taut. Juno looked nervous, tapping his foot almost imperceptibly, twisting the rings on his fingers. Although his locs covered one ear, Peter assumed Buddy was still connected to a comms call with him. 

Juno chuckled, low in his throat, and if not for the sharp edge to it, he sounded perfectly casual. “You know, Sora, maybe I can find you after the gallery showing thingy happens. Because it’s getting a bit late and I really need to powder my nose.”

Peter couldn’t quite see the expression on Sora’s face, but it was difficult to miss the way their hand ran down Juno’s chest, a slow, lingering motion. He clenched his jaw, almost on impulse. Awful neckline. Awful  _ dress.  _

“Oh, but you’ve already made me late to my own showing. We could afford to be a little later.”

“Yeah, uh, sure. But we have all night, so really, you should just get it over with. The art, I mean.” Then, his eyes flickered up, right over Sora’s shoulder, and met Peter’s, like he had expected him to be there. Unlike last time, he didn’t look away. It was only them, caught in each other’s orbit, tied together with a connection that had stood the test of time and space. 

Sora pulled back. “Hm, I suppose you’re right. Don’t suppose my lady could oblige me with a goodbye kiss before he leaves? I’ll need something to think about while we’re parted.”

Ah, there was that fury, swirling and expanding within him. Not at Juno, never at Juno, but at the mark, with their lingering touches and casual possession, as if Juno could be owned. It would be easier trying to tame a wildfire, to wrap a harness around the sun and bring it to heel. Juno Steel was wonderfully, beautifully, unmanageable. Stubborn as a gravitational pull and twice as unyielding. 

Juno Steel could not be controlled, and yet Peter had tried to keep the lady under his thumb the entire night, all the while disgusted at the mark for attempting to do the very same thing. 

And not for the first time this heist, Peter felt acutely like he’d been made a fool of. Had he fallen in love with the human embodiment of a planetary storm and then expected the storm to act predictably? To adhere to a pattern and a set of rules, to understand Peter’s deepest fears when he refused to verbalize them? It was ludicrous, and more than that, it was hypocritical.

He could have stood there for hours, having crisis after crisis, if not for the pressing reality before him. Juno, his gaze still fixed on Peter. And Sora, who had done nothing wrong save for being wealthy, exploitative, and having an incredibly complicated yet ultimately useless security system. Peter decided if Juno needed to go through with a kiss for the sake of a clean getaway, he would simply have to deal with it. Look away, perhaps, fold up the moment until it was so small, so minuscule in the grand and cluttered space of his mind that it could not haunt him. That was what he’d done with the morning in the hotel room, albeit with varying degrees of success.

For a second, he thought Juno was about to oblige Sora’s request. But instead, Juno kept his focus on Peter, and said, to Sora: “I’d like to keep you waiting.” Then, he reached into Sora’s pocket, fished out a small remote, and pressed the one button on it before returning it and brushing past them. 

In the moment before the showing was to begin, Juno crossed the room. Sora did a stunned double-take, and then rushed to take their spot in front of their gallery. They spared Juno only a single glance before they started to speak. The attention of everyone in the crowd turned to them, as striking as ever in their red suit and equally red cheeks. 

“Thank you so much for your patience. This, my esteemed attendees, is the moment you have been waiting for. Gathered from the farthest reaches of the galaxy, my collection has been in the making for many years. It is my greatest pleasure to share it with the world.” 

The divider began to rise, metal creaking as it folded itself up across the ceiling, lights flickering on its underside. 

Juno made it to where Peter was standing and began to walk towards the doors, a rakish grin spreading across his face. Peter had to remind himself to move, although in his captivation, he was mostly stumbling backwards. 

The divider was rising incredibly quickly. People pressed forward, ready to snap the first picture. 

Juno spared a glance behind him, hiked up his dress, which had to have been a violation of at least four separate decency laws, and started to sprint for the exit. 

By the time the divider was up and the mostly-empty gallery was revealed to bewildered eyes and comms flashes, Juno and Peter were outside, breaking past the doors just before they closed, a full lockdown initiated. They fought for breath, holding onto each other for balance, hands gripping fabric, chests heaving with desperate inhales and exhales. 

Peter was laughing, but buzzing with adrenaline, the sound was closer to manic hysteria than anything. Juno matched him, and the effort only made them more breathless. This was always the most dangerous part of the mission, where they burned with the success of a job well done, too wrapped up in each other to notice anything else. When Juno tried to straighten up, his ankle wobbled and he fell. In an attempt to catch him, Peter nearly hit the ground too, but managed to keep both of them upright. He pressed their foreheads together, smelling the whiskey on Juno’s breath, nearly tasting lipstick and alcohol on his tongue. 

Later, Peter would be informed by an incredibly disgruntled Vespa that Jet had to honk multiple times to get them to notice the Ruby descending in front of them. When they finally heard it, they jumped apart, pupils blown wide, alert and overexcited. Once the car was close enough, Peter wasted no time opening the door for Juno.

“Ladies first,” he murmured, his attention on the estate, where alarms began to blare. He followed after Juno, already anticipating the barrage of complaints about the art taking up most of the backseat, about the mission’s complete derailment, about Peter’s erratic behavior. After a solid few minutes of shifting, they managed to get settled with only a few strangely angled limbs. Then, Juno braced himself on Peter’s shoulder and leaned in, miscalculating the distance and nearly smashing his face against Peter’s ear. 

Peter waited for a curse, a one-liner, a comment about his attitude. 

Instead, Juno went very quiet. “I love you,” he whispered, so faint the words were blown away by the next warm breath. “I love you and we should probably talk.”

Peter could only nod. His pulse thrummed in his ears, heartbeat pounding as he tried to calm himself down. He would collapse soon, he knew, when whatever had powered him through a completely improvised mission inevitably shut off. But afterwards, he was ready to unpack a few filing cabinets with Juno, so to speak. At least, he wanted to be ready, to try. So he nodded again, and hoped Juno understood. 

He did. He always did. 

Once the Ruby was on autopilot, Jet turned around. “I trust the mission went well, Juno?” he asked, at the same time that Vespa said:

“Hell was that delay? Damn idiot, slowing us down like that.”

Juno crossed his arms, leaned back against his seat. His lounge was slightly hindered by the large vase in his way. “Aww, guys, you  _ do  _ care.”

Vespa snorted. “Oh shut up, Steel. I’m the one that’s stuck bandaging you up after every dumb decision.”

“Yeah, about that,” Juno winced. “Got anything for leg cramps? Couldn’t we have picked, I don’t know a bank? These paintings are taking up the whole car.” 

Peter’s heart still fluttered in his chest, an unsteady rhythm that kept him off balance. The emotional whiplash had taken a toll on him. But he was starting to ease himself back into the banter, the sound of Juno’s grumbling a familiar reassurance. As he started to come back to himself, he could find the strength to speak. “Well, Juno, if comfort is your concern, my lap is always open.”

Vespa made a retching sound. Jet simply said: “please refrain.”

Juno laughed. “Too bony for me, Ransom, but thanks for the offer.”

The Ruby was approaching the edge of the dome now, an endless expanse of space before them. In the darkness, Peter felt a steady warmth, Juno’s hand hovering over his in an unspoken question. He let out a small breath as he took it, squeezing lightly just to feel Juno do the same. Peter inhaled, the smell of Juno’s perfume wrapping itself around him like an embrace. They were alright. Everything was alright. Although they definitely needed to talk, Peter was content to stay in this moment, with him. The dome opened up around them, the entire galaxy at their fingertips. 

“Ruby,” he said, earning an annoyed look from Jet and a fond one from Juno. “Take us home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Sappho poem (Fragment 31) frequently called "Jealousy"  
> I really hope you liked reading this! Second fic ever for this fandom, and I absolutely can't wait to write more. It was loads of fun creating this, and I'd like to hear your thoughts on the fic. I am literally fueled by validation every comment makes my day!
> 
> I am Considering writing a little epilogue coda thing where they talk it out <3 so let me know if that's something you would want to see.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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